Twice as Dark: Two Novels of Horror

by Glen Krisch

  A rock crashed into the window, splintering the glass, making the scurrying office workers flinch away. Flames guttered from a car's open doors. Papers spiraled from an overhead office window. Crazed people formed a spontaneous line as they marched down the street. It all looked like some kind of insane tickertape parade.

  "Mr. Mayor, sir, you should see this." The police chief once again wondered why he took this stupid position in the first place. He should be retired, sipping fruity drinks somewhere tropical.

  The police chief saw what had focused the attention of the people outside. They were striking back, cornering a couple of dream-people in the small wedge of space formed by the building's brick wall and the burning car.

  The couple spilled into the office, a bare-chested dream-man, with a hole in his chest the size of a basketball, carrying an injured dream-woman in his arms. The dream-woman had mottled, feather-like wisps for hair, an aquiline nose, long and banana yellow like a macaw's. Blood flowed from a gash on her temple, and she tried to focus her eyes, but didn't quite succeed.

  "Help! They attacked us." The man seemed unfazed by the hole in his chest--he was a dream-man after all. "They saw Rahkel's appearance, and they… oh dear, she's not breathing. Someone do something."

  A circle formed around the pair of dreams, but no one offered assistance as a collective gasp spread through the room. They watched the dream-woman's wounds spontaneously heal. The gash at her temple knitted itself closed, and her skin seemed to reabsorb her shed blood. Her eyes fluttered as if she were merely waking.

  Smoke trailed in through the open door, a corrosive mélange of burnt gasoline and melted plastic.

  The mayor, with his sausage fingers flitting about his face with his kerchief, stepped through the crowd. He arrived just in time to see a mob of people forcing their way through the door, swinging metal pipes above their head, rolls of coins in clenched fists, spittle dripping from their chins. It was a collective insanity, this backlash against the dreams. Once their blood-crazed desire to destroy was sated, people would deny partaking in such violence. People would claim to have been at home, with the shades pulled, waiting out the storm, waiting for the calm of everyday to return.

  Within minutes, the people calling the hotline only heard the humming of a dead line.

  Chapter 23

  Kevin woke slowly, afraid to open his eyes. He could feel the morning sun warming his eyelids, a red, welcoming warmth. Stretching his arms behind his head, gripping his feather pillow in his hands, he felt the familiar comfort of his mattress. When he did open his eyes, something was wrong. Totally wrong. He was in his bed, having slept on his mattress. Not his Uncle David's lumpy mattress, not in the cramped bedroom at his grandma's house all the way in Chicago.

  He swung his legs off the bed, taking stock of the bedroom. Albert Pujols stared down on him from his life-size poster. Then there was his 50 anniversary corvette poster with models from every year, his favorite being the 1962 classic convertible. His dresser, nightstand, and desk--all in order. All of this was right, and somehow, none of it was right at all. When he stood up, the hardwood floor creaked its familiar creak.

  A voice called out from downstairs, breaking the morning silence and multiplying his confusion. "Kevin, come on. You gotta eat something before we leave." It was his dad's voice, sharp and authoritative, but from the tone, he could tell he was in a good mood. Then the voice joined his mom's in conversation. Comforting and reassuring, muffled by the distance to the kitchen, but still closer than he ever thought the two of them would be again. His mind started whirling, creating a list of questions and grappling with their answers.

  What's going on?

  Like a sheet of paper from a notebook, he took hold of the list of questions in his head and tore it out, crumpled it into a ball and threw it over his shoulder. He didn't want to consider anything. All he wanted was to go to those voices and feel the affectionate embrace of his family.

  He padded down the stairs, whipped around the corner, and stopped so suddenly his feet skidded on the wood floor. It really was his dad. With his shirtsleeves unrolled and his tie loose, he offered Kevin a wry smile, and then brought a plate of French toast over to the kitchen table. His mom had her back to him at the stove, turning bacon with metal tongs. The bacon sizzled and splattered, and it smelled like heaven. Seeing his parents midway through their morning rituals, Kevin had an uneasy sense of familiarity. Sure, he had seen his mom make bacon a hundred times. And his dad always set the table. It was something else. Something outré-familiar.

  "Nice of you to join us. I'm afraid the French toast isn't as warm as it was five minutes ago, but then again, if you were hungry enough, you would've been down earlier," his dad said as Kevin took his seat on the far left of the table. French toast was his favorite. He could eat it three times a day and never get sick of it. His dad heaped some onto his plate, and then patted his shoulder to let him know he was just kidding. His dad didn't think much of breakfast, and usually only had a cup of coffee before leaving for the office.

  His dad had touched him.

  Kevin looked at his arm, stunned. Even through the fabric of his t-shirt, he could still feel the rough touch of his calloused hand. All of this was wrong. All of this could never happen again. Because… because he had left his mom at his grandma's house, and his dad… his dad was never coming home again.

  "Kevin, what's wrong, honey?" his mom said when she turned from the stove. She was wearing the rainbow brooch he had made for her from plastic beads and pipe cleaners the year before for Mother's Day. She wore it high up on the lapel of her blouse where everyone would see it. When he had given it to her, he had waited for her to wear it. Every time the family would go out for some special night, he would scan her lapels for the rainbow brooch. She had never worn it. After enough parties and get-togethers went by, and he ran out of excuses why she hadn't worn it, Kevin had given up on her wearing it at all. He figured she had not liked it. In fact, she hated it. He had been secretly heartbroken. Now, on this morning, this morning of all mornings, she wore it prominently.

  "Really, Kevin, what's wrong? You're crying." She put the bacon on the table and sat down next to him, scooting over and lowering to his eye level. His dad was stirring his coffee, that familiar clinking of the teaspoon inside the cup like a rhythmic morning song he'd forgotten until just now. He wanted to cry even harder. But he didn't.

  "Nothing's wrong," he said. Her eyes were glassy and distant, without the intensity he had become accustomed to. She looked much younger without it.

  "You're not upset about going to your grandma's house are you?" his dad asked and sipped his coffee.

  "Grandma?"

  "You know, your mom's mom. The nice lady who bought you that baseball glove that's been like an extra appendage hanging from your arm?"

  "Grandma," Kevin said again. "No, I'm fine. Just got some sleep in my eye." He rubbed his eye, rubbing away the crust that was not there.

  "You sure?" his mom asked.

  It was his last chance to explain how he really felt--jerked around, discombobulated. But instead, he only nodded.

  "Orange juice?" his dad asked.

  "Sure. Grande o.j. on the rocks," Kevin said without thinking, reading off his order as if they were at a Starbuck's. It was another morning ritual, and his alone to perform. His mom smiled before returning to the stove.

  His grandma's house. Now he understood.

  The familiarity. He understood it completely, but he didn't want to recognize this day for what it was. Didn't want to give it a name. And yet things weren't exactly like that particular morning. He sensed no tension between his parents, no cold silences; in fact, they seemed overly in love, at least by their standards. If anything, it was as if a thick sheen of fake happiness had glossed over that morning. An idealized morning with his favorite breakfast, his mom wearing the rainbow brooch, his dad speaking to him, his parents acting lovingly to one another. It was just so wrong. Holding the juice he poured
for Kevin in one hand, his dad wrapped his other around his mom's waist, then kissed her on the cheek.

  "Grande o.j. on the rocks. Sorry, we only have cubes. If you wanted shaved ice, you can go to the Ruby's house next door, I'm sure they would accommodate you." He slid the juice across the table, like a barman passing a beer, not spilling a drop.

  "Thanks, Dad."

  His dad went back to his place at the table. He sipped his coffee and read the morning's sports page. After a couple minutes, his mom joined them at the table, bringing along a bottle of maple syrup.

  She cut her French toast, drowned it in syrup, like she always did, and took a bite. She looked at his dad, and he turned his attention away from the cover story about the Bears, and they shared a smile. She took another bite, looked up again, and again, the smile. They were like robots. The more methodical their actions became, the more the questions prodded at Kevin. His family together; all he ever wanted. Ever since that morning… this morning.

  "When does the bus leave?" Kevin asked. He had not touched his food. He had lost his appetite.

  "10:35," his dad said, unable to pull his gaze away from his mom. Their behavior was overbearing. Creepy. They were looking into each other's eyes as if they were starving animals finding thick slabs of steak just behind the other's eye sockets.

  Thankfully, someone knocked on the front door. If something did not interrupt the creepiness, Kevin thought he would scream.

  "Can you get that, Kev?" his dad asked. He did not look away from his mom. And she held his gaze, even as she shoveled forkfuls of French toast into her mouth. He kissed her hand, like couples did in old movies, and then wiped away maple syrup that was dribbling down her chin. He licked his finger clean of the syrup, and at that moment, leaving the kitchen was just about the best thing Kevin felt he could have done.

  The knocking at the door became more insistent. The rug by the door absorbed the slap of his bare feet. The family suitcases waited by the door for the trip to the bus station. All of them. Even his dad's. He tried thinking back to that morning (this morning), to see if he could remember if they had brought his dad's suitcase to the bus station. He couldn't remember. He supposed it didn't matter.

  Nearly blinding sunlight shined through the small panes at the top of the storm door. He closed his eyes, and once again saw that red warmth behind his eyelids. It was a welcoming warmth, and he did not want to open his eyes again.

  But the knocking. More insistent, rattling the door.

  Kevin opened his eyes, and reached for the doorknob. When he opened the door, all he saw was a black void. And the stench of something foul, something abused and rotting.

  His eyes adjusted. It wasn't a black void outside. It was nighttime. The pure black of night, when the sun is so far gone you can feel the shadows breathing. Kevin saw the winking lights of his friend Scotty's house across the street, and then the red embers, twin fires burning in a somber blue face. Mr. Freakshow.

  The Freak was here, and Kevin had willfully opened the door. Kevin's feet were frozen. He could not even blink.

  "Kevin. Hello. I'm so glad you waited for me. Hope you enjoyed your final meal." The beast took a step inside, his engorged wings flapping behind him like snapped bath towels.

  Kevin looked over his shoulder. His dad was licking his mom's face, licking an errant runnel of maple syrup from her cheek, her chin, her forehead.

  But then they were fading, becoming transparent, translucent. Invisible. The kitchen table and chairs faded and were gone, too. Along with the breakfast smells--fried bacon, the sweet French toast aroma, and melted butter… all gone. The kitchen was empty, the living room was empty, the family suitcases were gone.

  "Your killing time is here," the Freak whispered, reaching out for Kevin.

  He was able to stumble away from the door, and as he turned to run away--to where, he had no idea--he tripped over his backpack. The only thing in his family home except for dust bunnies and memories. He took hold of the backpack strap as he tumbled, able to sling it over his shoulder. Mr. Freakshow lunged at him, claws spreading like a fistful of spears, and tore a swatch from the fabric of his backpack. Kevin finished his roll and gained his feet. He sprinted down the hallway, his footsteps sounding foreign in the unfamiliar emptiness of the house.

  Mr. Freakshow was close on his heels, his curled toenails digging furrows in the hardwood with every stride.

  Carin and Maury were making good time. They had taken I88 west, and then 39/51 south, and were leaving miles behind, more than a mile and a half a minute. They left the rain behind in the city, and the roads were dry. They had passed through the LaSalle/Peru spur where the highway system rested like a crucifix across the center of Illinois. Darkness spread over the open plains like a sickness, and still Carin sped down the highway, onward south, to their home in Warren Cove, and hopefully, dear God, hopefully, to Kevin.

  "This should have never happened," Carin said her first words since leaving the city.

  "I'm afraid Nolan Gage didn't invest as much time or money in the containment system as I thought necessary."

  Carin saw his profile as he stared out the side window. She thought back to the day she and Kevin moved to her mother's house, to the lost and insoluble expression her son had carried like the heaviest burden imaginable. Maury looked like this; maybe a look of guilt, maybe feeling responsible for the escaped dreams. Like she knew Kevin felt responsible for his dad's death. She wished she could go back in time, how far… a day, a week? and tell Kevin that none of it had been his fault.

  "That's not what I meant. I meant I should have never let Kevin talk me into letting him go into that damn museum. None of this would have happened if I would have told him no."

  "Oh…" Maury said, sighing.

  The thrumming engine was the only sound for many miles. It was numbing, driving at such speeds. They were only a discarded roofing nail or broken beer bottle shy of bursting a tire, of crashing end over end at ninety odd miles an hour into the grassy berm on the side of the road. Driving blind, trusting the safety of the road, trusting the next twenty feet in front of the car, and the next beyond, for miles and miles.

  Carin's thoughts returned to Kevin, and she heard his laughter in her head--a sound so rare for so long--his hitching laugh that climbed in pitch with his every breath until it became one long screech, and then dissolving into uncontrollable giggling. This took away the numbness of the drive. She reached over her shoulder, grabbing the seatbelt. She pulled it over her torso and locked it into place at her side without taking her eyes from the road.

  The next twenty feet.

  Kevin needed her, and she wasn't about to let him down because some drunk idiot chucked an empty beer bottle out the window and she wasn't paying attention to the next twenty feet. She would worry about other things when they reached Warren Cove.

  "So, how did you learn about your… abilities?" Carin asked, breaking the silence.

  Maury turned, looked at her, and then returned his gaze to the window. "When I was around Kevin's age, maybe a little younger, our apartment burned down. If you couldn't guess from my appearance, I didn't escape unharmed."

  "Oh, thank God," Carin said. Maury shot her a look so cold that she could feel it without looking at him. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. I just haven't taken this route in a while. We're two miles away from Warren Cove. We're almost there."

  "Outstanding," Maury said quietly.

  "I'm sorry, Maury, go on. What happened next?"

  After a long pause Maury continued. "To tell you the truth, I don't know if I had my abilities before the fire. Maybe I always had the ability and I just didn't know it. The fire could have opened a doorway that had been there in the first place."

  They left the highway on a sharply curving exit ramp, slowing to twenty miles an hour to hold the curve. They passed a gas station and a squat red produce stand that was closed for the season. Otherwise, blocks of homes on tree-lined streets spread out before them like a paper
fan.

  "The first dream I transmuted was from my brother. It was our family pet, a pound cat we'd named Rocky. That cat was a survivor, just like the boxer in the movies. He was a day short of euthanasia when we adopted him. He burned to charcoal in the apartment fire. Soon after, the dream-Rocky started tormenting my brother, and this dream-cat was always on fire, but would never die. Eventually, the dream-Rocky killed Dale."

  "I'm so sorry." Carin took her eyes from the road. When she looked at Maury, she could see the pain in his eyes. She wanted to say more, but she knew from bitter experience she couldn't say anything to make him feel any better. She turned onto Winfield road, and they were only a block away. She wanted to drive up to the old house and see Kevin climbing the oak tree in the front yard. She wanted to yell at him for climbing too high, and then hug him when he climbed down.

  "That's how I know Mr. Freakshow will try to kill your son. Because of my brother, Dale. And when I was twelve, I was taken in by my foster family--"

  "What the hell is that?" Carin cut him off, pulling over to the curb. Their house was lit up from the inside. Lit up as if by daylight. Golden light spilled from the first floor windows. And the front door was open. A figure, a large, hulking figure, filled the doorway. Mr. Freakshow. "No no no!" Carin threw the car into park before it was completely stopped, and it jerked forward, as if a giant foot had kicked it in the rear bumper.

  She opened the door and ran across the front lawn as the Freak stepped inside her family's home. The interior sunlight of the house dimmed to a cold darkness as the door closed behind him. "No!"

  Maury remained in the car. He casually unbuckled his seat belt, then casually pressed wrinkles from his dress shirt. Before leaving the Explorer, he reached over and hit a button on the driver's side door. The locks on all the doors flipped open. He continued speaking as he left the car, continued speaking as if he was still explaining his life to Carin. "And then I learned that a dream could die. But only if the dreamer died. Poor, simple Gabe. I could have loved him like a brother, I think…" he trailed off, as if pondering it. Musing over his foster brother. He popped open the back tail gate and rummaged through the typical car gear. Jumper cables, snow brush, emergency blanket.